


El Caleuche

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-15
Updated: 2010-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He winds his way through the dancers, feels the press of warm bodies against his own, and tries to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	El Caleuche

He winds his way through the dancers, feels the press of warm bodies against his own, and tries to remember. But then the floor sways and the ship sways and a girl sways with her arms around his neck. Her eyes are bottle-green, her lips are pale pink, her skin is freckled. He doesn't know her name, and he isn't sure of his own. Everything sways, sensuous, a guajira-son flowing out over the bows of the ship, and he goes with the flow. She tastes like seawater, salt and vinegar curdling on his tongue.

He can't remember how he got here; he knows what it means, and that's really all that matters, but it bothers him nonetheless. The waves slap against the golden sides of the ship and he thinks he died in an explosion. The mainsail snaps like a gunshot and he closes his eyes against the cold breeze that sends his hair flying. Behind him, the music strikes up a faster rhythm. Another smiling girl passes him, and he almost follows her. He's getting better at this, better at controlling the urges. Is this what it's like to be Dean? The name flashes through his mind and slips away, quicksilver as the fish that follow in the flourescent wake of the ship. He is almost sure he died in a fire, crushed by a falling ceiling, burnt alive in his bed (or was it his crib? A man presses a drink into his hand and he sips it, and forgets).

He has no idea how long he's been here, doesn't care really, except that lately he's been having flashes of faces, voices, smells (the sharp stench of Hoppe's No. 9 mingles with saltwater and sweat). A warm body slides against his, and the hand on the small of his back burns like a knife. He pulls away abruptly.

The ship ploughs silently through the black water, the stars wink calmly above him, the party goes on. Nothing has changed, nothing has stopped. But Sam Winchester remembers.

There's an old woman on the ship who he's never noticed before. She's sitting at the base of the mast, knitting. Her needles flash in the dark, and he stumbles towards her on suddenly unsteady legs. The steady clicking of the needles pauses, and black eyes look up at him from a moon-white face.

" _¿Recuerdas?_ " she asks. Do you remember?

He knows this. He's done it before, and the words come easily. " _Quiero visitar mi hermano._ "

Sharp eyes study him. " _Solo una dia. Devuelves con el sol._ "

One day. He's done this before.

He's floundering in grey sand, offship before he can even brace himself, and the landing knocks the air out of his lungs. He's got nothing on but the sodden, blood-clotted clothes that he died in. He knows with horrifying certainty now that he drowned, in Southern California, hunting a Siren that had been stealing the local surfer boys. He has twelve hours to find Dean. One day.

Dean's here somewhere. Clinging to that thought like a lifeline, Sam starts walking.

  
*

  
He finds out that he's back in California, like El Caleuche is some sort of fucked-up phantom cruise ship, so he hitches a ride to Palo Alto. The town is the same as ever, brighter and smaller than he remembered, and students are too busy drinking and studying and living to notice Sam. No one sees him and stares, or shrieks. No one notices at all. He wonders if that's part of the deal.

Jess's grave doesn't look any different. She isn't waiting for him there, isn't sitting nonchalantly on her headstone, isn't standing on the perfectly manicured grass. She isn't there at all.

Dean is, though.

He's looking down at the green grass and pink marble of Jess's grave (there are fresh flowers and Sam wonders if they're from Dean), and he doesn't seem to notice that Sam's standing two feet behind him. "Dean," he says, and he means for it to come out loud and clear but for some reason it's just a strange, choked-up breath.

Next thing he knows, Dean's pulled him close, his arms around Sam's waist like a vice. "Sammy," Dean murmurs.

He pulls back, touches Sam's face. "Hey," he says. His eyes are glittering. "You came," as though it's a surprise. He sounds surprised every time Sam comes back. Dean is an idiot.

"How long has it been?" he asks. He hates not remembering, and hates the way Dean's face changes, hardens, while he's gone.

"You've been gone for three years, Sam. Third time you've come back," Dean sounds tired. "Let's go get a drink."

Sam is only a little surprised that Dean found the only dive in Palo Alto; but Antonio's is cheap and dark and quiet. His beer is cool and sharp, and he drinks it slow, enjoying the taste for as long as he can. Dean perches next to him, glancing over every few seconds.

They finish three bottles each before Dean gets down to business. (Four hours left.)

"How much do you remember?" he asks.

The shock of the cold water, and the Siren's voice. Knowing he was in trouble when the water felt warm. Waking up to night skies and a ship alight with spirits. Nightime, it was always nightime.

"Drowning," Sam says. Dean's face darkens. "It didn't hurt," Sam adds, although he's fairly certain that's not what Dean wants to hear.

Dean sighs. "OK, so you're on _El Caleuche_ \- it's a phantom ship, kinda like the Flying Dutchman except the vibe's cooler and the babes are hotter. Is that true?"

Sam raises an eyebrow, remembers bottle-green eyes and constant music. "Yeah, I guess," he says. Dean grins, briefly, and then he sobers.

"That's it for the good news, though- I- I can't find anything about getting off the ship." Dean's staring at the bar like he can see through it, if he tries hard enough. Like the answer's hidden somewhere in the grain of the wood.

"I mean, I've called everyone," he says, more to himself than to Sam, "Bobby, Ellen, some old-ass bruja down south (bitch ripped me off)- I've read every goddamn book in the world, Sammy. Nothing."

He takes a long pull on his bottle. "But I've been thinking, Sammy- what if I took out that Siren? I mean, she might be the link, it might free you and-"

"Dean," Sam says.

"-I mean, there's stuff out there on killing Sirens, but I don't want to go an-"

"Dean."

He stops, and looks up at Sam. Dean reads him like a book (always could), and what he sees in Sam's face has him shaking his head. "No, Sammy," he says, "I'm not giving up. Not ever. I'm not stopping until we're together again."

"Dean." His brother's staring at the bar again, fingers twisting around the neck of his bottle, slipping in the moisture that's gathered on the glass. "It's been three years, Dean. I don't think I'm coming back."

"No," Dean whispers.

"I've been dead for three years and- maybe it's just time to let go. I don't know if you can bring me back. I'm dead, Dean."

"What's dead should stay dead," Sam says (it's been so long, and he remembers less every time, and he knows it's only a matter of time before Dean dies on some hunt), and Dean flinches.

*

They end up on the beach, drinking Millers and getting sunburned. Stupid way to spend a day, but better than hunting or travelling. They shoot the breeze, talk about Dean's hunts and how Jo bagged herself a werewolf.

"Did you know," Dean says, "that you can kill a Wendigo with a lighter?"

Sam frowns at him. "How do you know that?" he asks. (His stupid brother has a deathwish, and Sam knows it's only a matter of time.)

Dean shrugs eloquently. "I had to chase Jo's skinny ass halfway across Canada. She got snatched."

"Have you and she-" Sam begins, and Dean silences him with a look.

One hour left, now. The sun is sinking on the horizon, painting everything livid yellow. Dean just stares out at the ocean, apparently absorbed in the rolling waves and the hissing tides that wash small helpless things up on to the beach.

"Dean?"

Dean looks up at him, eyes guarded. "You're leaving," he says. It's not a question. Sam nods. Dean's eyes are back on the wide expanse of the sea. He digs his fingers into the sand.

"See-" he says, "if you're going to leave, I... I don't want to do this alone, Sammy."

Sam can feel the sea tugging at him, like an invisible tide pulling him away. It's nearly time to go. Dean looks miserable. ( _Devuelves_ , say the breaking waves.)

"Come with me," Sam says. Maybe being dead's messed up something in his head, maybe he's lost his perspective (or just changed it), but there it is.

Dean's head snaps up. "You won't be alone," Sam says.

His brother is staring at him, a little horrified. "I'd be dead," he says, as though Sam had forgotten. He hadn't. It was just a little hard to tell the difference, now.

"You wouldn't be alone," Sam says. The pull is getting stronger now, he thinks he can hear music somewhere, and his mind's getting foggy. "Come with me," he says again. He offers his brother his hand. The waves crash against the sand, and the sea is slowly sucking Sam away from the shore. He keeps his eyes on Dean, wills himself to remember who Dean is and what they did, what they are. Dean's biting his lip. His eyes flicker out to the sea and then back to Sam's hand.

The last thing Sam feels is the solid warmth of Dean's hand in his own.

"I'm coming," Dean says.

  
 _Dear God, be good to me;  
The sea is so wide,  
And my ship is so small._

 


End file.
